Harper Hall Investigations Bundle

Semi-Charmed, Harper Hall Investigations, Book 1, Chapter 1

Whispering Hope, New York, present day

Harper Hall swatted the fast-fingered hand of yet another horny, middle-aged CPA off her ass, but resisted the urge to dump tequila in this one’s lap. After all, the Prince Valiant haircut and underbite he was saddled with were
punishments enough for his crimes.

“Hey, baby,” Valiant’s friend said as he fondled his shot glass suggestively.
“Is that a mirror in your pocket? ‘Cause I can definitely see myself in your
pants.”

Harper rolled her eyes and shot back, “Darlin’, I’m not your type. I’m not
inflatable.”

And with that, she turned on the heel of one of her requisite six-inch
platforms and started for the bar as the CPAs chortled and bumped knuckles.
They were probably looking at her butt too, but Harper chose not to dwell on
that, or on the fact that most of said butt was hanging out of her Daisy Dukes.
Not her best look, to be sure.

Lanie Cale, one of the other waitresses, grabbed her arm and leaned in,
shouting over the music, “Hey, can you take over for me with the guy at table
five? Carlos is letting me dance tonight. I go on in ten.”

Harper gave her a quick once over. Lanie was five years her junior, ten pounds
lighter, and had her beat by a full cup size. If she was Lanie, she’d probably
want to be a stripper too. But as it stood, she was stuck waiting tables with
the other B-cups.

“Sure,” she answered. “But, Lanie, this guy at table five…he’s not a CPA, is
he? I don’t think I have the strength for another CPA.”

“No way is this guy a CPA. I’d bet Thor’s abs on it,” she promised
solemnly as she disappeared into the crowd.

At that moment, the sweaty throng of dancers and customers and waitresses
parted, giving Harper her first glimpse of the guy at table five.

Wow. Thor’s abs were in no danger tonight.

The guy at table five was definitely not an accountant. Serial
killer, maybe. CPA…um, no.

Table five was wedged in the corner, to the extreme right of the
stage, which was why no one usually wanted to sit there. But instinct told
Harper this guy had refused to sit anywhere else. This was one of those
never-let-anyone-sneak-up-behind-you types, maybe with a military or law
enforcement background. Paranoid and probably with good reason.

Everything about him screamed tall, dark, and brooding. From the black hair
long overdue for a trim to the black-on-black wardrobe, complete with biker
boots and a Highlander-like leather trench, this guy was either a true
rebel without a cause, or the best imitation of one she’d ever seen.

And he was drunk off his ass. Not the kind of happy, silly drunk the CPAs at
table ten had going. No, Harper could tell by the way he was ignoring the
half-naked dancer on stage that he was drowning his sorrows.

Ignoring Misty Mountains wasn’t easy, either. Her brand-new double D’s were
mesmerizing, and the nipples kind of followed you wherever you went like the
eyes on the creepy Jesus picture in her mom’s living room.

As Harper watched, he polished off a bottle of Glenlivet and set it beside
three other empties. She sighed. He’d probably pass out before he remembered to tip her. Damn drunks would be the death of her.

Harper squared her shoulders and walked up to the table, then knelt beside him so he could hear her over the driving beat of Bon Jovi’s Lay Your Hands On Me.

“Can I get you anything else, sir? Like coffee?” Hint, hint.

He didn’t even glance at her as he slid the empty bottles to the edge of the
table and said, “Another bottle.”

His voice sent a shiver down her spine. It was gravelly, raspy, almost like
he’d growled the words instead of speaking them. Sexy.

But sexy voice or not, she wasn’t about to serve him another bottle. He was
probably a few inches over six feet and maybe a little over two-hundred pounds, but no one—not even a manly man like this one—could down four bottles of
eighteen-year-old Glenlivet and blow a Breathalyzer that wouldn’t get him
immediately arrested.

“I think you’ve probably had enough for tonight.”

He slowly glanced over at her as if he hadn’t really noticed her presence until
just then. When her eyes locked with his, she completely forgot what they’d
been talking about. Hell, who was she kidding? She forgot how to breathe.

This had to be the most gorgeous potential serial killer she’d ever seen.

He had a dark olive complexion most women would kill for, cheekbones sharp
enough to cut glass, and eyes that were either black or the deepest blue she’d ever seen—it was too dark in the club to tell for sure.

His perfectly arched black brows—and they had to be naturally perfect, because she was pretty sure this guy wouldn’t be caught dead waxing—raised sardonically as his gaze moved over her.

Harper fought the urge to suck in her stomach and desperately wished her
uniform was a size eight instead of a four. She had dignity in a size eight.
Class, even. In a four…not so much.

He lowered his gaze to her chest, and then slowly lifted it back to her eyes.
“I doubt they’re paying you to think, sunshine.” Sliding the empty bottles
even closer to her, he repeated, “Another bottle.”

He’d said it very slowly, deliberately, in a manner most people reserved for
slow-witted children and foreigners. The only part of her that wasn’t at all
impressed with the guy’s fallen-angel face—which just happened to be her
Sicilian temper—kicked in at that point.

Harper straightened and snagged the bottles off the table, preparing to
verbally flay him, but just when she’d figured out exactly how many four-letter words she could hurl at him in one sentence, a premonition hit her hard.

People often asked her what premonitions felt like. Imagine someone punching a hole through your forehead and making a fist around your brain, she always told them. This premonition was no different.

Harper staggered forward and planted one palm on the table to steady herself as images assailed her: a young, blonde woman in an alley pinned to a dumpster by a man twice her size.

A vampire, she knew instinctively. Cold chills always shot down her spine when she saw them.

Harper sucked in a deep breath and forced herself to concentrate on details
other than the victim, just like Sentry taught her so many years ago. Instead,
she tried to picture the dumpster, the buildings around it, street signs…anything that might tell her where this girl was so she could call the
police and get her some help.

And then she saw a logo printed on the side of the dumpster as big as
life. Kitty Kat Palace.

Holy shit, the vamp and his victim were here.